


P.S.

by well39



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Historical, M/M, Mild Language, Racial slurs, Separation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 14:32:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4610319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/well39/pseuds/well39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur travels to the new colony of Australia, leaving behind his friends, family, and a possibility barely acknowledged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	P.S.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the FrUK Loving You Through Time event on tumblr. I would like to note I do not share the same views as the characters, but portrayed them in the way that was the most common view held at the time. Please be careful reading if racial slur's offend, I want everyone to have a happy time on the internet.
> 
> Notes on language:  
> A 'Trooper' is Australian slang for policemen, or the old equivalent. 'Bush rangers' are highwaymen, roadside robbers of a sort. A 'station', in this context, would be the old town center, jail, and where the troopers were, well, stationed.

 14 September 1828

_Dear Arthur,_

_I’m writing in the hopes this letter will catch you before you depart, but if not, I’m sure one of your brothers will have it sent over. I’m certain you’re already aboard and enjoying it, but try not to forget us ‘landlubbers’, will you?_

_I myself am doing well, thank you for not asking._

_I’ll pray every day for the safety of your ship. Who knows what might befall the crew if you are allowed near the galley. I did send a separate notice, but I have not a clue of whether it reached port in time. On that note, make sure you eat your fruit. Scurvy is not to be trifled with._

_Remember that little boy, the one with the bread? He came to me yesterday evening, and said to give you his thanks. His mother was near distraught, but I know that loaf graced a very happy table. That supper was probably the most they had eaten in months._

_You did a good thing that day._

_What is there left to say? The skies over this abysmal city have cleared somewhat. Just last week, I caught sight of the sun! Imagine my surprise. Ah, I can almost hear your protests now._

_I hope you are faring well._

_Love,_

_Francis_

Arthur stared out over the water, deck of the ship rolling beneath his feet. He adjusted his stance easily, the waves no longer causing him to clutch the rails or rigging to keep from falling overboard. Instead, his fingers curled over the well-worn edges of the letter as the breeze attempted to tug it free of his grasp. Arthur’s gaze didn’t shift. Hadn’t since he’d come on deck. He didn’t need to look to know what was written there.

“Clearing up, huh.” Arthur muttered. Talking to himself had become a habit over the course of the trip. He snorted under his breath.

In the long months that had passed since he boarded the  _Challenger_ , Arthur had had plenty of time to read over the last missive he’d received. With not much else to do other than work, he had memorised the words. The single page was faded and creased, falling to pieces at the edges, partly from Arthur’s repetitive tracing of the words, and partly from exposure to the salt spray.

There was no need to look to know that there was not one mention of his mother or father. Just the mundane, everyday chatter that stupid man was known for. It might have been better that way. 

Even after all this time, Arthur was unsure of his decision.

He longed for the brisk autumn skies of England. The cold chill that was sure to be setting into the air. The warmth of a fireplace that had burned throughout the day. The leaves turned gold with the season. He longed for it with a passion he hadn’t realised he possessed.

But here he stood on the deck of the ship, exposed to the elements, clad in nothing but a pair of breeches and simple linen undershirt. The captain claimed the warm weather to be this corner of the world’s equivalent of autumn, though the closest it had come to what Arthur would consider proper weather was some nights ago. That was the first storm they had run into, even though he’d been told the sea was normally plagued with ferocious typhoons at this time of year. He’d been pelted by the rain, nearly lost his grip on the ropes in the wind, and felt a chill settle so deep into his bones he wasn’t certain if it would ever leave him.

That had been the most alive he’d felt in years.

He was uncertain of his decision. Yet here he was, setting out into a new world, a country not yet made.

There was a certain excitement to the whole affair.

“Arthur,” called the captain. “Come have a look up here.”

Arthur glanced over, curious. While he had become friends with the captain somewhat, it was rare for them to talk while either one was at work. Arthur obeyed the insistent beckon and climbed the stairs to the poop deck, coming to stand by the wheel. The captain grinned and slung a hand over his shoulder, turning him around to face the bow.

“See that?” he pointed to the horizon, chugging Arthur’s shoulder with an enthusiasm he’d not shown since the first months of their journey. “Look, there, to the East.”

Arthur frowned. “Charles, I don’t –“

Arthur lurched forward, gripping the rail, his eyes wide. He could hear Charles chuckling behind him. Arthur could only stare, eyes fixed on the black smudge in the distance.

A thin black line on the otherwise perfect blue. It almost faded into the clouds, disappearing with every dip in the waves and reappearing as they crested the tops.

“So this is New Holland, then?” Arthur breathed, afraid to take his eyes off it.

Charles laughed. “That name’s been buried, lad. We’re to call this place Australia.” He clapped Arthur on the back and took the wheel again, correcting their course. “And Australia is to be our home.”

The thrill that ran through him was part exhilaration, part fear. It lit a spark he hadn’t realised had been doused.

               

On May second, 1829, after a week spent anchored off a small island, a select few passengers and crew took a boat and rowed to shore. Arthur watched from the deck of the  _Challenger_  as Captain Charles Fremantle declared the Swan River Colony for Britain, his voice ringing over the bay as he ploughed the flag deep into the sand.

There was a great cheer from the passengers and crew – the first settlers. Arthur joined them, and the sparkling waters below reflected the light in his eyes as he leaned out a gun port, one arm hooked over a canon, the other waving as he shouted.

Later that day, as the sun faded and the air cooled, Arthur fell out of the tiny boat that had brought him to shore and received a face full of salt water, his sea-legs betraying him. Coughing and spluttering, he reached blindly for someone to help him up, and grasped at the hand offered.

“Well, that’s certainly one way to get acquainted,” came Charles’ familiar laugh.

Arthur wiped his eyes and glared around at the snickering crowd. He was one of the last off the ship, and there was quite a gallery.

“Arthur,” Charles said, drawing his attention back. His eyes were warm. “Welcome home.”

Arthur opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head. He smiled. “To you too,” he said.  “Welcome home.”

 

3 May, 1829

_To Francis Bonnefoy,_

_While I thank you for your letter, I would prefer you do not write again. Your thoughts are much appreciated, but unnecessary. Further, please refrain from ending correspondence to myself with the misnomer ‘love’. Such a phrase is not to be bandied about._

_Many thanks for your previous assistance, and best wishes in your life._

_Regards,_

_Arthur Kirkland._

 

The letter, so short and so sharply written, brought a smile to Francis’ face as he read it for the tenth time. It was nearly February now, almost a year later when it had finally been delivered. There was no information on Arthur’s wellbeing, the colony, the new land, anything. Only the achingly formal words, and a request to cease further contact. Francis couldn’t help but grin to himself.

No matter. He was prepared for a challenge.

“Mr Bonnefoy?”

Francis turned to the maid in the doorway with a smile, the letter tucked neatly away in his breast pocket. “Yes my dear?”

She blushed and gestured to the room beyond. “Mr Kirkland will see you now.”

He internally cringed at the use of that name, but outwardly had no reaction but to breeze past her with a wink. Entering the open sitting room, he closed the door behind himself. The opulence of the manor never ceased to amaze. He supposed it was to be expected of a family so close to the crown. A man stood in the centre of the space, arms folded over his chest, contemplating a plate of delicate biscuits on the table before him.

Francis cleared his throat. “So. Am I to call you ‘master’ now, Allistor?”

“Don’t you start too,” Allistor glowered, turning. “I get enough of that from the lads.” He gestured for Francis to take a seat and did so himself, flopping into a chair with as little grace as he could muster.

Francis raised an eyebrow, seating himself on a chaise lounge across the table. “Oh, not at all. I was only wondering whatever happened to Dylan? Would not the eldest usually inherit?”

“He’s too soft,” Allistor waved a hand dismissively. “Our father knew it too.”

“So he left you the estate?”

“He left the  _management_  to me,” Allistor corrected, scowling. “The grunt work. The real wealth? The brat gets that.”

Ah. Francis kept a look of polite interest on his face while he sorted through what to make of this latest news. Arthur’s relations with his siblings were strained at the best of times. Francis suspected it to be part of why he had volunteered to settle the new land.

He would not be pleased.

“Have you spoken of this to him?”

“No. Which brings me to why I called you here today.” Allistor ran a hand over his face. “The two of you were close, we’re you not?”

Francis felt the familiar pull in his gut. A tug he’d felt the first time he and Arthur had met. A tug he’d felt increasingly often during the lessons. A tug he felt every time Arthur was mentioned nowadays. He kept his face neutral.

“As much a tutor and pupil could be, I suppose,” Francis said.

“Do not take me for a fool, Francis.” Allistor glared. “How long do you think we’ve known each other? I know your habits, and I know you had designs on him.”

“I may or may not have . . .” Francis closed his eyes. “. . . Courted him,” he acceded. “But this does not mean he reciprocated.”

Or he hadn’t. Francis turned his thoughts away from that day as Allistor studied him.

“Regardless, I’ve no doubt you’re still in touch with the boy. I want you to keep this from him.”

He wouldn’t say ‘in touch’ were quite the right words for their correspondence. But no matter. It wasn’t like Francis intended to stop sending letters. The he realised what had been said. Francis blinked.

“Might I enquire as to why?”

Allistor shrugged. “What good would it do him? He’s there now. Even if he were to return, I still manage the estate. He’d not get any benefit from me, nor the others.”

The power plays of a court family. Francis sighed.

“Is this really what you wish?” he asked, meeting his friend’s eyes. “If it is so, I will do as you ask; but Allistor,” Francis leaned forward. “He is your brother.”

Allistor held his gaze. “It is so.”

Francis sighed again. “Very well.” He sat back.

“Besides,” Allistor scratched his neck, uncomfortable. “London was never any good for him. He will do better over there.”

This, Francis agreed with. “The seaside always did him good.”

Allistor grunted, what would have passed for fondness in a lesser man crossing his features.

They relaxed slightly, business taken care of. Allistor rang for some brandy, offering a smile to the maid when she brought it. Francis noted this with interest, keeping an eye on them the rest of the evening. The two of them talked and drank until well into the night, catching up on old times. They laughed and reminisced, Francis never letting the conversation fall into uncertain waters.

The whole time, he thought over Allistor’s request, ideas bouncing around his head.

 

12 February, 1830

_Dearest Arthur,_

_What would I do without your sweet nothings whispered across the ocean?_   _Would that you knew how your words did wound me._

_London is as filthy as ever. The clouds have not left us for a month or more now, and my poor frozen fingers tremble as I write. From what I know, it is not so in Australia? What a thing, to have a warm Christmas._

_Your brothers are well. I spoke with Allistor not a fortnight ago, and you’ll never guess what I discovered._

_Here I forget you cannot answer. Allistor and the maid, they are courting. They seem very enamoured of each other. Wonderful news, yes?_

_On the topic of courtship and all its intricacies, I have not given up. I refrained from approaching you with the matter whilst you were my student, but we no longer must be held by that barrier._

_I cannot describe in mere words the depth of my feelings for you._

_Love, Francis_

_P.S._

_Please consider this a statement of intent._

Arthur’s throat constricted. He crumpled the letter in his hands and threw it across the room.

What was that? A love letter? A statement of intent?

Arthur didn’t need any of that. There was no time for such things in the colonies. More than a year had passed since they’d arrived, and still there were barely workable roads. The summer had been blisteringly hot, to a degree Arthur had never experienced before. People were dying from all manner of things – not just the heat, but dysentery, scurvy, flooding, even starvation. What houses they had managed to build barely deserved the name, a bunch of timber shacks with primitive thatched roofs. Many families were still sleeping under canvas shelters, exposed to the harsh elements.  There wasn’t enough money, and servants were going unpaid. The flooding had damaged the crops, and the natives were taking unkindly to the improvements the settlers had made to their lives. One person had even been speared last month.

 It was all too much for many, and people were packing for the eastern colonies. Half the colony had deserted already.

Arthur did not have time for Francis’ games. There was work to be done.

He grabbed his boots and shovel and headed out the door, leaving without sparing a glance for the crumpled paper.

 

“So, Arthur,” grinned William, one of the men he worked with. “You got yourself a lass yet?”

Arthur rolled his eyes at the man’s tone. Heat beat at him from the front, making the skin of his face feel taught, and cool air pressed at his back. It had been a long day. All he’d wanted was a quick beer and some warmth. He looked into the fire without responding.

“What’re you on about, Will? Artie ain’t got ‘time for such affairs’, now do he?” Langley snickered. He’d come over from a penal colony on the east, having been recently released. His opinion of Arthur was a low one, and he ensured others knew it.

“Exactly so,” Arthur said, calm. “Especially not with Yagan and his men up in arms over the smallpox outbreak.”

“The bloody coons. What’re we supposed to do about it? It ain’t out fault they’re so weak.” Langley took a swig from his tankard, not noticing the subject change. It was a proper old thing, polished silver engraved with twining script, and probably cost more than any of them would make in a year working the roads.

Arthur smiled, unamused. “Yagan has more than 12, 000 men to his side, Langley. If he thinks we are to blame for his people’s deaths, it would be wise to take heed of his threats.”

“A few thousand savages? What’ll they do, stone us to death?” he laughed, harsh and cruel. “They might be more, but we are smarter.”

It was a strange kind of irony, hearing that from him, Arthur reflected.

“Will! I’ve been looking for you, mate.”

The three of them looked in unison to the left, where they could make out the vague shape of a man against the dark. He moved into the ring of light cast by the fire, and Arthur relaxed.

“Andy!” William stood to hug him, then scooted along his log to make room for them to resettle themselves. “Didn’t see you on the roads today. Where’d you scamper off to?”

Anthony looked around the group, his eyes lit with excitement, and back to William. “Promise you won’t tell?”

Arthur shifted, curious, and Langley squinted across the fire.

“You’ll not be getting an oath outta me, lad.” William teased.

Anthony whacked him across the arm, grinning. “If you won’t promise, you won’t be getting any gold from  _me_.”

“Gold?” That caught all their attentions. The smile dripped off William’s face. Langley leaned even further forward, eyes intent.

“Gold,” Andrew beamed. “Some lady dropped a bunch of the stuff, right at my feet. A big bag full of pieces. Of course, being the good Samaritan that I am, I ran after her horse, but she was long gone.” He shrugged, and grinned again. “So, gold.”

“. . .Fucking hell.”

Arthur wasn’t sure who swore, and he didn’t care. He just stared at Anthony with the others.

Gold. A lot of it, from the sounds.

Even a purse cold be life-changing around here.

William let out a whoop, breaking the silence, and hooked his arm over Anthony’s neck. “Oh Lord I knew I made the right decision taking you in lad, I knew I did! Your father ain’t getting you back no more, no siree!” Anthony laughed, and struggled to break free, but William grabbed his shoulders instead and kissed him roughly on both cheeks. “Here’s my golden boy, my lucky nephew! Oh we gotta tell your mamma, she could get a new bonnet!”

Arthur laughed at their joy, happy for them. William had taken good care of him since they’d arrived, and Anthony was close in age. They deserved this break if anyone did.

Langley snorted, staying uncharacteristically quiet. Arthur tried to ignore the uneasy feeling it gave him, and continued to laugh and listen to the other two, but it was hard.  His mind swam with the rumours Langley had taken to bushranging. Seeing him with that tankard, Arthur would be hard-pressed to say otherwise. But bushrangers weren’t such a problem in Perth. The troopers wouldn’t do any investigation until there was murder.

Arthur shook his head and put such thoughts to the back of his mind. Tonight was a night for celebration, and celebrate he would.

 

They passed the evening drinking before Arthur made his excuses and stumbled home. Kicking off his boots by the door, he squinted in the light of the tallow lamp he kept burning, and his eyes landed on a ball of paper near his feet. He leaned over to pick it up and uncurled the page.

His breath caught.

He’d forgotten all about Francis’ letter. Unable to move for a moment, he simply stood in the doorway, staring at it. Francis’ love letter.

It had been more than two years since they’d even seen each other.

 “Stupid,” Arthur muttered, the evening’s euphoria evaporating. “Stupid, stupid man.”

He walked two paces and collapsed onto his cot, letter held above his head so he could read over it again. Exhaustion and drink tugged at his eyes, and the words blurred in and out of focus. He scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand and, blinking, tried again.

“Dearest Arthur,” he read to himself. Dearest. Dearest meant precious.

Precious Arthur? He snorted and continued to read.

“A warm Christmas would have been nice, you know.” he told the paper. “It was more like we got dropped in a volcano and left to stew.” He shuddered at the memory. “And Allistor’s gonna get her pregnant an’ then she’s gonna wanna get married and he won’t do that, will he? Not even if he loves her. Cause Allistor’s the man of the house now, and he has to behave like a master should.” He rolled onto his side. “And a master has to have a proper wife. A proper woman of proper breeding, just like mother was.”

He paused, then shook his head. Maybe not like his mother was.

He traced his fingers over the words. They brushed feather-light over every dip and rise in the crumpled paper.

_I cannot describe the depth of my feelings for you._

Arthur’s hand stopped there, resting just below the words. He let out a breath and smoothed down the paper, working out the creases. His hands were clumsy, eyes heavy with sleep. It had been a long day, and a longer night.

He was tired of thinking.

“Stupid man,” he whispered, closing his eyes. The letter stayed clutched tight to his chest; somehow, it smelled of roses and home.

Arthur’s dreams were filled with half-remembered moments. A flash of a smile. An exasperated sigh. A tug in his gut.

A single, soft, fleeting kiss behind a curtain.

 

October 4, 1830

_To Francis,_

_You provided me with a fitting education, you never underestimated my abilities, and you took the time to help with what I could not achieve. I admire you greatly as a teacher and my brother’s friend. I apologise if I led you to believe I could return any feelings you held for me._

_I cannot._

_While I am thankful for the news of my family, we are separated by a great distance now. I hope you’ll see the futility of any further correspondence._

_Thank you for everything,_

_Arthur_

 

The tight ball in Francis’ chest did not dissipate, no matter how many times he read over the words.

Perhaps he had been mistaken after all. Perhaps Arthur truly felt nothing for him. Perhaps he had simply been experimenting, or even practicing, when he pulled Francis into the study that day.

Francis swallowed at the idea of being a practice partner for Arthur’s youthful shenanigans. Tossing the letter onto his writing desk with the others, he pushed back the chair and paced to the open window. He hardly noticed the view. In his mind he went over every inch of his interactions with Arthur, from the day they were introduced, till the day Francis had received word of his departure.

That first instant, when their eyes had met. The flush on Arthur’s cheeks.

That day Arthur had returned home battered from some fight. The trust he put in Francis’ care of his wounds.

That gripping week he’d left home without sending word, only to arrive back from a trip with friends, claiming to have told Francis beforehand.

Francis paused. Perhaps that was not the best example.

But the moment in the study. Arthur’s uncharacteristic lack of words.

The kiss.

No, he hadn’t been mistaken.

Arthur had left too soon. Francis was not given the chance to explain his lack of response. He’d not been able to tell him the reason why he had not swept him off his feet there and then, regardless of the circumstances. He was frozen, and the world was moving past while he could not.

He hadn’t been mistaken, no, but he may have missed his chance.

 The plan that had begun forming nearly a year ago fell into place in his mind.

 

June 20, 1831

_Beloved Arthur,_

_“I don't know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all the roses.”_

_Sometimes the heart sees what is invisible to the eye._

_I said before that there were not words to convey the depth of my feelings. There are not, not even through another’s mouth. What I feel for you cannot be expressed in speech, or thought. But Dostoevsky said, and I agree, that there are moments, you reach moments, when all of a sudden time stops and becomes eternal. The day we met was one of those._

_I know you felt it too. What I hope is that you do still._

_Love always,_

_Francis_

Arthur allowed himself a second of staring. Then two.

What was this?

His head felt light, an ache in his chest he’d been able to ignore until now becoming pronounced. His fingers trembled slightly as he placed the letter carefully onto the desk.

What was this? Why now? What was the point?

He shook his head, frustration overcoming all other feelings, and glared at the paper. He’d told Francis not to write again. He’d told him twice. Why couldn’t he just listen and stop throwing Arthur into confusion, why couldn’t he just go away, give up, leave him  _alone._

Grabbing the thing, he read over it again, determined to find something to dispute in his reply. That was when he noticed the postscript, tucked away in the bottom corner, miniscule writing almost hidden.

 

 _P.S._ it read.

 _There is an immeasurable distance between late, and too late_.

 

Just as Arthur was puzzling over the meaning of these words, there came a knock at the door. Cursing, he scrambled to shove the letter into the trunk at the foot of his cot and slammed it shut. Making his way to the door, he peered out the window first before throwing it open.

“Do you have any idea what time it is, Will?”

His friend stood on the porch, pale-faced and sweating. For a moment, he just stared at Arthur, eyes wide, and did not respond.

“Will?” Arthur frowned.

“Langley’s been caught.”

The words fell from William’s lips and hit like blows to his body. Arthur gripped the doorframe, nails digging into the wood.

“You’re certain? It’s him?”

William let a grim smile filter through. “It’s him. He was wearing Andy’s overcoat when the troopers brought him in. I saw it all.”

Arthur nodded, grabbing his boots and outer-wear. It didn’t take him a second to dress, and William led him over to the horse tethered to the porch railing. Arthur didn’t think twice before mounting. The mare was slick with sweat and breathing hard, not rested enough, but she took the two of them on without complaint. William stroked her neck once, murmuring to her before kicking her into a trot, and then a canter.

Arthur hung on to his friend’s waist as they rode, silent.

Langley’s capture was big news. He’d evaded the troopers for months after deserting the roads. His name had fast become one spoken in hushed tones around the fire, a mothers warning for naughty children. Arthur himself had joined the hunt, riding out to the furthest waterholes in the hopes of finding him. It had gone on for weeks.

“How did they get him?” Arthur called over the thundering hoofs.

“Some troopers played at being a wealthy family. He fell for it.” William shook his head, hands tightening on the reigns. “Stupid bastard,” he muttered.

Arthur’s chest tightened. “Hey,” he said. “They got him.”

“Yeah.” William might have nodded, or it might just have been the way he bounced.

They said no more for the rest of the ride.

As they came into the town proper, William slowed the mare to a trot. People were in the streets, crowding around verandas and hanging out windows. The news had spread fast, it seemed.

Eventually stuck at a walking place, Arthur shook his head. “Tie her up over there,” he said, pointing to the tethering pole outside the postal office. “It’ll be faster on foot.”

William nodded, directing them through the crowd. They dismounted, loosened the saddle, and ensured there was enough water she wouldn’t expire before they returned, then set off at a jog, dodging through the assembly. The crush became thicker the closer they got to the town square, red dust filling the air from the dry ground beneath their feet.

The bell began to toll, and Arthur grabbed William’s hand, tugging him faster through the crowd. They burst out the edge of the assembly just as a pair of guards led Langley out from the station. His hands were tied, head bowed as his wardens pulled him by the upper arms towards the overturned cart, a makeshift gallows.

Arthur felt William stiffen as he caught sight of him. He kept his grip tight around William’s wrist, wary.

“Easy,” he muttered.

“Today, the 12th of April, marks a new day for us.” Charles’ voice rang across the square. The governor stood atop the cart, looking out over the gathering. “We are gathered to witness the execution of a feared bushranger. Langley Stewart, step forward.”

The guards shoved Langley forward, and he stumbled slightly before righting himself.

“You are charged with thievery, rape, and the murder of Andrew Stirling. I hereby sentence you to death by hanging.”

The crowd stirred as Charles stepped down and the guards brought Langley to the edge of the cart. It was nearly nine in the morning now, and the sun inched its way over roofs and to the ground. Charles stepped forward, accepting a white hood from a helper.

“Do you have any last words?”

For the first time since he’d been brought out, Langley looked up. “Sure I do,” he said, voice harsh. “Go fuck yourself.” He spat at Charles’ feet.

Charles didn’t blink, gesturing for the guards to hold him tighter as he slipped the hood over Langley’s face. “Dear Heavenly Father, with heavy hearts we come to You,” he recited, stepping away so the guards could heave Langley onto the cart. “Our hearts are heavy because of a life that is leaving us. Death engulfs us Lord.”

Laughter echoed out into the square, loud and obnoxious. Arthur wrapped an arm around William’s middle, his friend taught with hatred, even as a voice whispered to let him free. The laughter grew to hysterical proportions, drowning out the rest of Charles’ prayer. The noose was placed over the hood, and Langley’s neck jerked back, his voice hitching.

“Keep us ever aware of Your loving hand guiding us through all things.”  Charles intoned. “In the name of Jesus we pray,” he made the sign of the cross on his chest.

“Amen.”

The guards pushed Langley off the back of the cart as one, and the laughter changed to a strangled gurgle.

 

Arthur slumped to the floor of his shack, exhausted. He had ridden William home after the service. He had seemed quiet and withdrawn the entire ride, only answering Arthur’s questions with yes or no. Arthur had volunteered to stay with him for the night, concerned, but William had shooed him home, laughing off his worries.

“I’m just tired,” he’d said. “I’ll be fine in the morning.”

Arthur wasn’t sure what to make of it all. His head hurt. His eyes ached. He crawled over to his cot and pulled the blanket over his lower-half.

He wanted to sleep, so he did.

 

It was finally starting to feel like autumn. That was all he could think.

There was a bite to the air. That was all he could think.

He’d had to wear his socks to bed. That was all he could think.

Arthur didn’t think as he sat through the funeral. He didn’t think as he carried the coffin. He didn’t think as he shovelled dirt over the wooden box.

He sat for hours, unthinking, in front of the grave, William’s last words clutched in his hand.

“Why,” he croaked out eventually, voice hoarse. “You were. . .why?”

He looked at the simple slate headstone as though it might answer him. It remained silent.

“Was it Andy?”

Silence.

“Langley?”

Arthur barked a laugh, just for something to do. The wind shivered through what few trees there were in the cemetery. He found himself wishing he’d brought a scarf.

The headstone stood, immobile and mocking. Arthur glared at it.

“Of course  _you’re_  fine, snug in the ground.” He sniffed. “Not all of us have that luxury.”

He could almost hear William’s teasing reply, telling him to get to work and stop moping about. A bit of activity would get his blood flowing.

Arthur sniffed again, nose running, and reached into his pocket for his handkerchief before he remembered his hand was already full.

He held the note up to his face, then waved it in the air. “And what’s all this about? This seems more like something you should be giving to your father, and you leave it to me, you ungrateful twat.”

Again, silence.

“Well, I’m gonna give it to him.” Arthur warned. “I’m gonna, just watch me." His smile faded. ". . .I can’t can I?” He groaned. “You wrote something embarrassing in here, didn’t you?”

“You know, I might just give it to him anyway, just to see his reaction,” Arthur muttered, splitting the seal. The note fluttered in his hands and he flattened it against his knee.

 

_Arthur,_

_Don’t be mad at me. I was tired._

_I love my family with all my heart. I know you have someone as well. You can understand._

_I’m sorry._

_I love you._

 

“. . .Is that it?”

Arthur blinked. His eyes stung. “So short,” he groused, voice cracking. His throat was tight. And dry. He tried to swallow.

 “So short.”

Arthur’s vision fogged over.

There was no one to witness his tears but the silent wind.

 

Francis placed the folder of Arthur’s letters carefully into his bag, taking care that it not get crinkled. He looked around the townhouse one last time.

He would not return here.

Hauling the canvas bag over his shoulder, he turned to the landlady.

“Thank you for all your help,” he smiled. “I could not have asked for a more hospitable carer.”

“Nor I a better tenant. It’s a mighty shame to see you go.” She pulled him into a hug. “You look after yourself, you hear?”

“And you,” he said, kissing her on the cheek and letting go. He gave her hands a last squeeze and made for the door, calling back over his shoulder, “tell the kids goodbye from me.”

She waved him off, a sad smile on her face.

 

Allistor was not expecting him. He didn’t look up from his papers when Francis entered the room, thanking the maid and shutting the door behind himself.

“Belle, can you fetch me some scotch? I think I have a headache coming on.”

“She is quite the belle indeed,” Francis replied.

Allistor’s head wrenched away from the documents, and he spun in his chair. “Francis? What are you doing here?”

“Just putting my affairs in order,” Francis smiled. “I’m here to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye?” Allistor’s eyes narrowed, and he spotted the bag in the doorway. “You can’t be serious.”

“But I am.”

Allistor growled with frustration, dumping his pen on the desk. Ink splattered the pages he’d been working on, but he didn’t seem to care. “So what? You’re just going to up and leave everything you’ve built?”

“Yes.”

“Your friends? Your family?”

“If that is what it takes.”

Allistor eyed him, casting his gaze up and down before coming to rest on his face. Their eyes met, and held.

“All for the brat,” he stated.

It wasn’t a question, but Francis answered it anyway. “Yes.”

Allistor glowered at him a moment more, then sighed.

“I hope you’re prepared,” he said, turning back to his work and cursing at the mess. He made a blind grab for some blotting paper, and Francis stepped forward to pass it to him. Allistor grunted in thanks.

“I am. I just wanted to let you know.”

“Hmn.”

Francis shook his head wryly, twisting to pick up his bag from where he’d dropped it.

“Francis.”

He turned back, but Allistor was focused on his work, eyes on his papers once more. Francis was just about to leave when Allistor spoke again.

“Don’t hurt him.”

Francis’ eyes widened, but he kept a calm voice as he replied. “Of course not.”

 

Arthur sat on his cot, a book of stationary balanced on his knee, pen poised above the page.

What was he to write? How had he written before?

He was seconds from throwing the book across the room and he hadn’t even started.

Why was he doing this? What would William care, really? It didn’t matter to him.

Arthur could almost feel the slap to the back of the head and the voice telling him not to be such a coward.  _Get on with it_ , it said.

Arthur groaned, and ran a hand through his hair. He readjusted himself on the bed and touched the nib to the paper.

 _Dear Francis_ , he began.

No, wait, that was wrong. He’d always written  _to_  Francis. Arthur tore the sheet out and scrunched it into a ball. He tried again.

 _To Francis_.

He frowned. It seemed wrong too, somehow. Arthur crossed it out.

God, this had never been so hard before.

Bugger it.

 _Dear Francis_ , he wrote.

 _It has been a month since I received your letter, and I have yet to reply. This is not due to any fault on your behalf_  – Arthur crossed the last sentence out. Who cared why he was replying now? He just was.

 _What you said about time stopping was dramatic, and overly exaggerated, but not_  . . . Arthur paused, ear’s heating up.  _Not wrong_ , he continued.

Oh Lord why did he write that?

He pushed ahead _. You infuriate me. You have since we met. You are everything I hate. I wanted to hate you. But I couldn’t._

Arthur stopped and read over what he had of the letter, smiled, and tore it to pieces.

 

“You’re my new cook, are ya?”

Francis glanced up from his game of naughts and crosses with some dock children. Standing over him was a tall man, imposing and weathered. Francis came to his feet, brushing his hands off on his trousers, and bid goodbye to the youngsters.

“Francis Bonnefoy,” he introduced himself, holding out his hand. “At your service.”

The man eyed him, judging. “Captain Thompson. I hope you can cook better than you play.” He ignored Francis’ outstretched hand and turned on his heel. “We’re setting off in an hour. Get your things.”

“Aye sir,” Francis replied, trotting to keep up.

Well. At the very least, he was on his way.

 

 _Dear Francis_ , Arthur tried again.

 _I am afraid. I am afraid of you and what you could mean for me. Or us._ Arthur made a face, but continued.

_This is not a relationship society would condone, in any measure._

_You said time had stopped for you, as it did for me._

Arthur’s hand paused, and he glared daggers at the page before him, eyes gleaming in the lantern light. He crumpled the piece of paper and threw it into a growing pile of balls by his feet, giving up.

 

Two weeks into the trip, Francis had decided he never wanted to see another piece of fish again. He wanted to go to the captain and beg for them to be able to open the winter stores of salted meats early. He wanted to, but he wouldn’t.

“Francis,” sung a wash maid, swinging her hips as she walked by, “when are you going to join me at night? I need a body to keep me warm.”

Francis smiled regretfully. He offered her a bow, splaying his fingers over his chest. “I’m afraid I cannot, mademoiselle. It would make this trip rather meaningless, no?”

She shook her head. “That’s the third time you’ve refused me,” she said. “This girl is lucky to have you.”

Francis hadn’t sent to let Arthur know he was coming, hoping to get a more honest reaction in his surprise. Every time he thought of it, his heart sped with anticipation and anxiety.

That this lady thought he was a good man dissuaded some of his fears.

“Let’s hope so,” he said.

 

_Beloved Francis,_

_I will attempt to express my feeling for you in words._

_When I’m with you, the mud seems luscious, and the puddles are as oceans. In your smile I see something more beautiful than the stars._

_You make me think of the world in poetry._

Arthur re-read the words and cringed. He crossed out and scribbled over the page until they could no longer be seen.

Why was he trying to emulate Francis’ style of writing in the first place? These were supposed to be his words.

 

Rain pelted the upper deck, sheeting almost completely horizontally into Francis’ eyes. Captain Thompson stood in prime position behind the wheel, calm despite the monsoon-like conditions.

Francis squinted into the dark, attempting to make out the sounds.

Rigging snapped in the wind, sailors shouted jumbled orders at each other, thunder cracked and boomed. But none of that was what he was looking for. He moved towards the forecastle, ears pricked, concentrated and shivering.

Francis followed the sound of crying till he discovered the captain’s daughter stowed away in the anchor bay. She was a young thing, curled up small enough she could fit in the tiny covered space even with the full length of chain beneath her.

“Wendy,” Francis called over the wind and thunder. “Wendy, can you hear me?”

She looked up, terror in her eyes, casting around for the source of the voice. When she saw Francis, she relaxed slightly.

“That’s right, it’s just me,” Francis reassured her.

She nodded, cheeks and eyes blotched with fear and crying.

“Now, Wendy, I’m gonna need you to come out of there, okay?” Francis urged. “Come with me, and I’ll take you to your father’s cabin, how does that sound?”

She nodded again, slowly.

“Alright sweetheart, just hop on out of the chains, yes?”

 

Arthur contemplated his last piece of blank paper. He would have to make a trip to purchase more.

Obviously, prose was not working. He made a face.

That was fine. He would just write about the mundane.

 

May 2, 1831

 _Dear Francis_ , he began, one last time.

_I do remember that little boy. He was so thin. And the police wanted to gaol him because he stole a loaf. We both did a good thing that day, Francis. He especially seemed to adore your company._

 

Francis gripped the small girl’s thin arm in his hand and yanked her towards him. They slipped and fell onto the soaked decking, Francis landing on his back, with her on his chest.

 _Ow_. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Wendy?” he asked, because she was trembling. “Wendy, are you alright?”

Her shoulders shook with sobs, even as she nodded against his shirt. He rubbed her back, pressing her close to him for a moment. But they had to move. It was becoming even more dangerous on deck, and it was no place for a child.

“Wendy, can you stand for me?” he asked.

It took a moment, but she did as he requested.

“Good girl,” he smiled. Slipping slightly as he struggled to his feet, he took her hand. “Okay, this is going to be easy,” he told her. “Just follow me!”

 

_Australian summers are harsh, so harsh I doubt you would even believe my stories if I told you. The winters, on the other hand, aren’t so much cold, as chilly._

_It did take some getting used to._

 

Francis gripped the girl’s hand with more strength than necessary, but she did not protest. As they picked their way across the swamped deck towards the aft, Francis felt the swelling beneath their feet grow larger and larger, and the dips longer and longer. He swallowed, not willing to raise his eyes to peek at what he knew must be monster waves around them. Wendy too, he noted, stared straight ahead, but for the occasional glance to see if he was keeping up.

He offered her a reassuring smile. “I’m here. It’s okay.”

 

_You say Allistor and Belle are courting? Please pass along my congratulations. And tell them all I am well. I have been meaning to send word._

_I must admit to some degree of homesickness._

There was a great splintering crack, and the timber of the main mast let out a shuddering moan. Francis’ head whipped around just in time to see it snap free of the rigging, sails sending the solid post crashing towards them.

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion, though it couldn’t have taken more than a couple of seconds.

Wendy shrieked, frozen with fear once again. Francis tugged on her arm, to no avail. Splinters flew through the air, one scoring a deep line across Francis’ cheek. He didn’t notice, giving up on pulling Wendy and instead picking her up and bodily throwing her over his shoulder in one quick movement before diving out of the way.

At that precise moment, the ship entered a deep trough in the waves, going almost vertical on the wall of water. The deck rushed up to meet them. There was nothing but air beneath their feet. Francis scrabbled for a hold on the smooth deck with his free hand, fingers catching in an open hatch. They slammed into the timber, bouncing off again, their weight supported by nothing but Francis’ arm.

Behind them, the main mast crashed into the foremast, snapping it in two. Both fell away to be swallowed by the raging depths.

Francis closed his eyes for an instant, then snapped them open again. His arm was trembling with the strain of holding two bodies.

“Wendy?” There was no response. “Wendy! Come on sweetheart, I need you awake!”

The ship had come to the bottom of the trough now, and was evening out. Francis allowed himself to relax slightly. But he knew this was only the beginning.

“Wendy, I need you to be brave for a moment. Just a moment, then you can break down as much as you need. Please.”

Her hands tightened on his shoulder, grip already so firm that it was sure to leave bruises. Slowly, she turned her face to meet his, deathly pale, and trembling more than ever.

“There’s my girl,” Francis tried to smile, but he was pretty sure it came of as more of a grimace. “Okay now, I need you to hop into this hatch, alright?” The deck tilted under them once more, the opposite direction this time as they began a steep climb. Francis put some urgency into his voice. “Quickly now.”

She nodded, unclasping her rigid fingers from his shoulders and sliding to the floor. Francis kept his grip on her arm until she had one leg through the hatch, then shifted his stance so he was no longer sliding forward with the incline. It had been his intention to get below deck with her, but once she was fully inside, he could see that wouldn’t work. This was a smaller hatch, meant for passing food from the galley to the deck. Wendy could fit, but Francis. . .

She stuck her head out, gesturing him to come, and he leaned in, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

“I’m sorry, cheri. I’m too big.”

“No!” She grabbed his hand, and tugged him towards her. The whites of her eyes were showing, but she had enough strength to drag his upper body downwards. “You have to get in!”

“Wendy, look at me.” She continued to tug on his arm. The ship was at a dangerous angle now, and Francis was anxious to be finding his own safe haven. “Wendy!”

She stopped pulling and glanced back, tears running down her cheeks. He leaned in and kissed the top of her head.

“You’re brave,” he told her. “You can do this without me. You just need to stay where you are. Okay?”

She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Okay.”

“There’s my girl. I’ll see you later.” He smiled, and let go of the hatch. The incline immediately dragged him towards the aft of the ship, where Captain Thompson somehow still stood, manning the wheel with a grim light to his eyes.

 “Is she safe?” he called, without shifting his gaze from the ocean.

“As much as she can be.”

“Very good Bonnefoy.” A gale blew over the keel and onto the deck, and they all immediately grabbed for a handhold. “You should take a look behind you,” the captain shouted.

Francis didn’t want to. He knew what he would find. But a certain morbid curiosity compelled him to turn; he regretted it instantly.

 It was so much worse than he’d thought.

 

_What did you mean, there is a distance between late and too late?_

_If it is just some riddle made to tempt me, you will sorely regret that._

 

They were nearing the looming crest of the monster wave.

It must have been two, three hundred meters tall. They had slowed almost to a crawl now, wind not doing much good to push them over the edge with two masts gone. Flecks of white sprinkled over the tips of the solid mass of water, the only hint that it would ever break.

Francis swallowed, his throat thick.

They weren’t going to make it.

 

Arthur considered the page, eyes heavy with sleep. He could hardly make out the words any more, but finally, in the end, he had something he could send. Satisfied at last, he signed off.

_I think that is all I have to say. I hope you are well._

Arthur was nearly in bed when he remembered, and he stumbled back to the writing desk. He barely finished writing before his head met the table.

He slept. The deep, dreamless sleep of the contented.

The last candle flickered, wick burning out.

 

There was hardly time to pray before they began to lose ground, sliding backwards into the trough. Captain Thompson abandoned the wheel and went to hold his daughter. The sailors raided the hold for brandy, passing around a last toast. The passengers huddled in the keel, unaware, as the wave rose higher around them, a wall seconds from collapse. 

 

_P.S._

 

Francis remained where he stood, hand pressed over his heart, until the water swallowed him.

 

_I love you._

 


End file.
